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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28472421">bend a little</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierraadeux/pseuds/sierraadeux'>sierraadeux</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Airplanes, Airports, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Meet-Cute, Meet-Evil, Sharing a Bed, Strangers to Lovers, but like anti meet cute, not dnp but a past relationship talked about, oh no there's only one hotel room</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:20:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,431</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28472421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierraadeux/pseuds/sierraadeux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is left with probably the very last seat mate anyone would ever want on a nine hour flight.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dan Howell/Phil Lester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>179</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hap new year! it sure is A Year...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say Phil is having a bad day would be an understatement. </p><p>He’s still a bit put out by the whole Christmas holiday thing, but he refuses to be outwardly upset at any of his parents wishes these days. So he’s mostly channeling his anger in the fact that he’s having to fly home alone on Boxing Day in order to be back in time—sans jet lag—for his New Year's tradition with Ian and Lauren. </p><p>Was anyone else aware of just how difficult it is to wake up the day after Christmas when your only objective <em> isn’t </em> to consume mountains of pancakes and Christmas dinner leftovers by the fire in your jammies all day while the telly plays a nonstop Harry Potter movie marathon? </p><p>Yes, Phil is thirty-three years old. That's besides the point. </p><p>The point is, having to be at the airport at six a.m. the day after Christmas for a nine hour transatlantic flight home is probably, actually, Phil’s literal definition of hell. </p><p>Forget the inferno flames and CBT—no not that one, the other one—Orlando International just before sunrise was born of Satan himself. </p><p>This fact is only intensified with how Phil stubbed his toe not once, but twice, going through security, was then, of course, randomly selected for a not at all nice, thorough pat down after said stubbing, nearly lost his boarding pass—well, actually did lose his boarding pass, thank God for the invention of the iPhone and digital boarding, and is now starting to convince himself his left contact is floating back into his brain as he boards the plane he’s surprised he actually managed to get on. </p><p>Why the fuck did he even put his contacts in in the first place, is the riddle he’s trying to solve as he bumps his way through the aisle of the plane. </p><p>All the way to economy, because obviously to make everything just that bit better it was nearly impossible to find any flights home in his time frame with more than one square inch of leg room that didn’t include twenty-four hour layovers or wouldn't run him a cool five grand.</p><p>At least, at the very least—as Phil slides his carry-on into the overhead compartment and flops down into the worn, lumpy leather seat—he managed to snag the aisle. A small beacon of potential leg stretching hope in his otherwise horrible, no good, very bad morning. </p><p>He lets a tiny bit of tension leave his shoulders as he settles in, fidgeting around in his seat in hopes to find some semblance of a comfortable position while he dreams of lift off and the little lit up sign that tells him he’s allowed to go to the loo to dig his contacts out of his brain.  </p><p>Seriously, he has no idea why his half awake brain compelled him to put his contacts in before he left. Sure, he does have that bit of lingering Hallmark hope that he’ll meet the man of his dreams in an airport terminal just like everyone else does, but it’s not like he actually actively thinks that’s going to happen enough to actually make sure he looks attractive for early morning long haul flights. That would be ridiculous. He chalks it down to Christmas travel insanity and a subconscious brain piloting the sleepy Phil. </p><p>Just as he’s letting his eyes blink shut, trying so very hard to forget about his roaming contact so he doesn’t just stick his dirty finger in his eye then and there, life decides to have one last little chuckle at his expense. </p><p>Mostly tuning out the commotion of the boarding plane, Phil doesn’t see, and only just hears, him coming. The volume is dialed up to max and Phil’s eyes shoot open the second there’s another body in his space, though—a man loudly yelling into the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he has absolutely zero regard for Phil’s presence while he shoves his bag into the overhead bin above him. </p><p>“I can’t fucking believe- oh, excuse me, let me just-” The man’s voice goes from its screechy yelling to something much softer so quickly it nearly gives Phil whiplash. “I don’t FUCKING care, you prick!” The high, almost pained whine of a yell returns.</p><p>Maybe it actually does give him whiplash. He’s rendered mostly speechless, unable to do much more than stare as he attempts to tuck his legs in so the man shoving through can, <em> well</em>, shove through. </p><p>The man does not stop yelling. And Phil is starkly aware that he is not the only person staring at him now that he’s flopped into the middle seat beside him with a loud, dramatic sigh. Nearly every single eye in economy is staring at him- <em> them</em>, making Phil feel the secondhand mortification so strongly he wants to sink into his seat and melt right into the dingy plane carpeting below his feet. </p><p>He isn’t allowed such a comfort, though, because he makes the horrible mistake of making eye contact with the visibly angered flight attendant. Her jaw tightens as she sees her own way out in dealing with this in Phil’s eyes—screw whatever curse was bestowed on him in a past life for these things to always, <em> always </em> happen to him—and she gestures to the phones off, seat belts on instruction flashing over her head. </p><p>“-know what?” </p><p>Phil tries to gently tap at the man’s shoulder as he continues to shout into his phone, his small, “Excuse me?” getting completely drowned out. </p><p>“You can eat a bag of dicks, Richard!” Phil hears an audible gasp from somewhere behind them. He taps a little bit harder, feeling the anger radiating off of the man like physical warmth under his index finger “Actually, no, you’d probably fucking like that wouldn’t-”</p><p>With more of a shove than a tap from Phil, the man cuts himself off mid sentence, looking to Phil with a face journey of annoyance, then wide eyed realization, something of mortification as his shoulders sink downward into the seat a bit, and then settling on seething rage again as a hum of a noise comes from the phone pressed against his ear. </p><p>“Lose my number,” the man says quietly, but no less angry into the phone, “lose your key too, if you know what’s good for you.” </p><p>There’s somewhat of a collective sigh of relief on the plane as the man hangs up the phone and promptly turns it off with a somewhat sincere sounding apology to the flight attendant that’s now dared to approach their seats. </p><p>She retreats with a shockingly patient smile and the promise that the drink cart will be making stops down their aisle once they take off, and Phil is left with probably the very last seat mate anyone would ever want on a nine hour flight. </p><p>Maybe the spooky Orlando airport hell dream stretches out all the way to the planes that leave it—just his luck. </p><p>The man is quiet now. So quiet in comparison Phil would question if he was even still there if it weren’t for the very real presence of his shoulder pressing scorching warmth against Phil’s side. </p><p>Phil dares to actually get a proper look at him, too shell-shocked by the situation before to see anything beyond the wide, angry brown eyes that shot daggers his way.  </p><p>He’s all slumped into himself. His head in his hands, looking of not much more than a pile of rumpled black clothing being held together by the large hands that are gripping at a deep brown mess of curls. His knee bounces incessantly against Phil’s, and despite the explosion he just witnessed, Phil’s heart cracks a bit at the sight. </p><p>He’s not good with strangers—shockingly, considering all of the ridiculous situations he’s always thrust into with them—so he really has no idea what to do. All he knows is that he can’t just sit here for the next nine hours in silence, and he also probably shouldn’t reach his hand out to squeeze at his knee like he feels compelled to for whatever reason. </p><p>So he takes in a deep breath, let’s it out slowly, and keeps himself turned into the man. </p><p>“Hey,” he says softly. The man’s knee stops bouncing. “Are you okay?” </p><p>To the extent of his knowledge, Phil has never before described anything as devastatingly beautiful. No person, no scenic view, no work of art he’s seen when playing cultured and fancy at various art galleries. He never even gave the description much thought, before now, never really had a clear idea of what it actually means. Something so beautiful it breaks your heart a little bit? Reaches right into your chest and squeezes in a way that you never want to stop? </p><p>When the man beside him lifts his head out of his hands and sits up to look at him, Phil finds himself understanding the term completely. He’s exactly that: devastatingly beautiful. </p><p>Round brown eyes are rimmed with red, the same shade that’s blossoming patches across his face as his jaw tightens and his wet stare intensifies. He runs a hand through the wild hair on his head, pushing and fluffing a few curls back into place on his forehead. It looks so very soft. His well-bitten, chapped lips are tugged down in a grimace that doesn’t quite seem to meet his sad, sad eyes. They say so much, but Phil isn’t sure he speaks the language. Anger, sadness, fear—everything seems to be swirling around in a brown so rich under the sterile overhead lighting that it’s almost impossible to distinguish iris from pupil. </p><p>Phil doesn’t think he’s ever seen a man so beautiful. And he doesn’t think he needs to highlight his lifelong interest in looking at attractive men in order to explain that significance. Anyone who’s ever shared this view must know as such. Anyone who looks upon this man would instantly get it. Someone so goddamn attractive he rivals fine works of art even with his visibly leaky nose. </p><p>The guy sniffs, and his eyes go from wide to narrow, ignoring the tear that rolls down his cheek as he sizes Phil up. </p><p>“Fuck off,” he says in response, apparently not liking whatever he’s seeing. The words have bite, as does the sharp snap of his head that has Phil staring at his rosy jawline with parted lips like a fish out of water, but they’re not nearly as harsh as Phil heard just a few minutes before. </p><p>Phil can take a hint. </p><p>He turns away, sitting forward again and trying his best to corral his big body away from the man’s big body so they’re no longer touching from shoulder to knee. As if on cue, a little chime rings through the cabin and the seat belt light flashes green. Phil wastes absolutely no time in shooting up out of his seat, grabbing his glasses case from his carry-on and going up, and then back down, the aisle on slightly wobbly feet to locate the bathroom. </p><p>It’s going to be a <em> long </em> flight. </p><p> </p><p>Once he’s had a wee, splashed some water on his face, and squashed the fear that he’ll need to have one of his contacts surgically removed, Phil rights his crooked glasses and makes his way back to his seat. </p><p>He’s met with a completely different scene. So different he pauses his digging around in his carry-on to do a double take at the soft eyes and gentle smile that look up at him, acknowledging his presence. The guy looks away almost instantly, looking back down to the book he has cracked open on the fold out tray his knees are now pressing up against. On it, surrounding the book and making little crinkly noises as the man scribbles against a page in red pen, is a whole plethora of packaged snacks. </p><p>Like, an unhinged amount of snacks—he’s probably wiped out half of the snack trolley alone. </p><p>With an inaudible huff of a laugh and a slight upward tug at the corner of his mouth, Phil finally pulls his eyes away and swaps his glasses case for his iPad and headphones. He still keeps his distance sitting back down, leaning as much into the aisle as he can before being labeled a hazard, and dares another glance to the side while he untangles his headphones and plugs them in. </p><p>The guy’s knee is still bouncing, rattling the little plastic tray, but it’s not nearly as frantic. It doesn’t disturb the flow of the pen in his left hand, and Phil has to look up before his nosiness prevails. Probably not the best idea to try to read over the shoulder of a man who seemingly has no issue with screaming on an aeroplane. </p><p>He has AirPods in, another new development. Phil realizes the bounce of his leg is actually quite rhythmic, along to the beat of whatever song Phil, himself, can’t hear. That cracked bottom lip is trapped between his teeth now. Angry patches of red still bloom at his jaw. There’s a small dent in his cheek, just above the flush. It deepens as he swallows, jaw tightening and throat bobbing. </p><p>He looks up, as if he sensed Phil tracing the slope of his nose with his eyes, and Phil feels the burning heat at his cheeks. The guy keeps his gaze though, looks at him from beneath his eyelashes in a way Phil thinks he couldn’t look away from if he tried. Like, at least seven burly men would still struggle to pull him away with how frozen he is to his seat. And typically you get one or two of those in the same room and Phil is as pliable as melty play-doh. </p><p>So it’s a lot, really. </p><p>The guy’s eyes flick down, releasing Phil, but not stopping him from following his gaze. He pushes a packet of fruit snacks over to the edge of the tray with the back of his pen. Some sort of peace offering it seems. </p><p>Phil takes it—just the fruit snacks—and tears open the packet with his teeth once he’s settled into his seat with his headphones on and his downloaded episodes of Buffy up on his iPad. After the morning he’s had, Phil fucking deserves to escape with David Boreanaz. </p><p> </p><p>Sexy vampire peace lasts exactly one hour. Phil is only half awake, maybe less than half awake, sitting all twisted sideways with his iPad held up with a hand and an edge pressed into the seat just like his cheek. It’s not exactly comfortable, there’s a slight ache in his shoulder, and one of his bum cheeks is definitely asleep, but it’s the most comfortable position he’s found after much wiggling around. </p><p>That little bit of serenity is ripped away from him with a jarring dip of the plane. A collective intake of air, then concerned murmuring as the turbulence doesn’t mellow out. Heads continue to roll on Phil’s screen as he pulls off his headphones and sits up in alarm, looking around to much similar expressions. </p><p>Well, except for the guy sitting next to him. He’s managed to curl his long body up in the middle seat even more than Phil had despite having less room, turned to the side with his legs pulled up, the book he was scribbling in now held above his knees. He glances up over the book, brows tugging together at whatever he sees on Phil’s face—as if nothing about this situation is at all alarming. </p><p>The cabin jostles around again. Phil takes in a sharp breath, death-gripping at the armrest. </p><p>“Just a bit of turbulence,” a low, smooth voice says from behind the book. Its tone is completely different to what Phil has previously heard out of his mouth—syrupy warmth flowing into his ears, if he’s going to get poetic about it. Grounding, if he’s going to keep himself out of the clouds. </p><p>Well, actually. He’d quite like to stay in the clouds right about now. The plane, seemingly, has other plans. </p><p>Over the rapid beating of his own heart, his internal monologue of <em> this is how I die, this is how I die, </em> and the reassurances from flight attendants rushing up and down the aisles, a chime rings through the cabin. It’s followed by a message. </p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me?” The guy next to him huffs, slamming his book shut.</p><p>Due to an unforeseen storm, they’re turning around, grounding the plane in some American city Phil didn’t manage to catch due to the uproar of passengers and the pounding blood in his ears. </p><p>He sinks in his seat, tuning out the huffs beside him and accepting whatever inevitable is coming his way. </p><p>Phil’s review of the day: zero stars out of ten, would not recommend. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things, apparently, can get worse. </p>
<p>Ever the optimist, Phil always tries to look for the upsides. Currently, he can pin down a whopping total of two. </p>
<p>The plane didn’t crash, at least—no final destination, snakes emerging from luggage nightmares forcing him to watch his very short life behind his eyes. Which is good considering that’s not exactly the type of in flight entertainment he signed up for. </p>
<p>And also the, uh, whole not dying in a watery grave thing. Also good. </p>
<p>There was a premature sigh of relief when the wheels hit the ground, Phil trying to settle the seasick—airsick?—feeling in his stomach from all the turbulence as he pried his clawed death grip from the armrest. It stuck with him even when his feet were firmly on the ground, pacing back and forth in the terminal while he listened to flight attendants and customer service reps tell him worse and worse news as the minutes, then hours, ticked by. </p>
<p>They’re grounded. In a daze passengers are doled out vouchers and reassurances that they’ll all be rebooked on the first flight that can go out—whenever that will be. </p>
<p>Somewhere in Phil’s pacing their luggage is unloaded from the plane, Phil barely processing the exasperated and enraged chatter around him as he picks his blue case out from the crowd. </p>
<p>This isn’t just a quick layover that’ll have him back on a plane to Heathrow in an hour or two, even though he desperately wants to remain ignorant and believe that it is. He’s heard the words “unexpected”, “unforeseen”, and “unprecedented” so many times he’s about to un… unleash… <em> something</em>. His tears, he guesses.  </p>
<p>Which brings him to his second, and final, upside: everything has gone so wrong he’s actually, fully, feeling zero shame whatsoever about openly sobbing in the middle of an airport terminal. </p>
<p>The dam starts to break as he busts open his suitcase for his phone charger when he can’t find it in his carry-on. </p>
<p>His phone had died sometime between his initial text to his mum and his fiftieth paced lap of the terminal kiosk, and his trusty iPad has decided now is the time to continuously disconnect from the airport WiFi the second he gets it to connect—unable to hold any signal long enough to even open Google or Airbnb.</p>
<p>It finally dies as well, after so many tries he actually loses count, leaving him to plop down right on the rough navy carpet to dig through his suitcase like a madman. </p>
<p>It takes garish vacation button ups, bright swim trunks, and many pairs of pants strewn about in front of him to come to the conclusion that <em> all </em>of his electronics’ chargers are sitting very happily plugged in to the power outlet in the guest bedroom of his parent’s timeshare… in Florida. </p>
<p>Phil is starting to really hate Orlando and everything it stands for. </p>
<p>And with murmurs of fully booked hotels and nary an overnight rental in sight in his ears, Phil decides the only thing he can really do in this situation is have a little cry. </p>
<p>Or perhaps a big cry. He’s just beyond overwhelmed, well past defeated, and for the first time in, probably ever, the last thing on his mind is worrying about what strangers are thinking of him. It’s just Phil, the dingy airport carpet under his bum that he’s probably going to be sleeping on tonight, and the snotty sniffles he’s hiding in the front of his hoodie—the collar pulled up over his eyes. </p>
<p>And… the warm hand on his shoulder? </p>
<p>Phil presses the heels of his palms into his eyes in a mostly failed attempt to collect himself, and pokes his head out of his hoodie like a turtle emerging from its shell. He pushes his glasses down from his forehead and collects all of the woodland creatures as he looks up at the person attached to the hand with wide, spooked eyes. </p>
<p>Cute angry plane man takes that as his cue to pull his hand away. He takes a little step back with the movement, stuffing both of his hands into the front pockets of his joggers—his body language everything of a sheepishly waved white flag. </p>
<p>After a beat of silence—and the awkward eye contact Phil avoids by focusing on the movement of his left hand going all fidgety in his pocket—the guy clears his throat and says, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” </p>
<p>Phil looks up at his voice, follows the way his shoulders lift a little higher as he speaks—like he’s also trying to do a bit of hiding himself. </p>
<p>Funny way to go about it though, towering over Phil in the middle of the chaos. </p>
<p>It seems to be settling down at least, Phil notes as he looks around in a bad attempt at a cover to wipe at his eyes, the rest of the plane either leaving the terminal all together or accepting defeat and claiming their spots to camp out. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to be discreet when he can <em> feel </em>his eyes burning, all puffy and red. But he also doesn’t know why this guy is talking to him either. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry for the, uh-” Phil looks back just as he’s making a big, obscure gesture with his hand. “-aeroplane crimes.” </p>
<p>“Aeroplane crimes?” Phil asks with a slight rasp to his voice. </p>
<p>Now that Phil’s looking, he notes how the guy won’t meet his eye. How he looks down to his feet in front of Phil’s open, disaster of a suitcase and scratches at the back of his neck. There’s a pang of empathy, somewhere between the ragged breaths of him trying to calm himself down, cheeks hot as the embarrassment fully wraps itself around him. He’s got no real idea of what the guy is going through, and it’s definitely far more of a story than Phil’s own, but it’s safe to assume they’re both feeling similar sorts of awful right about now. </p>
<p>It’s tough alone, and Phil is just at that tipping point of needing something- <em> someone </em> to lean on. Maybe this guy needs it too. </p>
<p>“Yeah, the um… you know.” </p>
<p>“Don’t think about it,” Phil says immediately, causing the guy to look up from his feet. His big brown eyes are softened with something that looks a lot like remorse. It squeezes tight at Phil’s chest. There’s something about his sheepish posture, something that says he’s probably not usually the type to have outbursts on planes. “It’s okay,” Phil says, softer—not knowing if it is, knowing there’s actually quite a lot that <em> isn’t </em> okay right now. But this, this incredibly sad and incredibly beautiful man trying to apologize to <em> him </em> for expressing a human emotion? Phil reckons he can let any offense he felt in the moment slide. </p>
<p>He’s been there. Everyone has, really. </p>
<p>“Nah,” the guy shakes his head, “I was a proper asshole. There were probably babies on that plane, listening to me swearing and talking about eating dicks.” He says it so blasé, Phil can’t help the little giggle that escapes his throat. </p>
<p>“If it helps, I don’t think babies speak English. Or at least, they probably don’t know what eating dicks means, so I think you're fine.” </p>
<p>There’s a hushed murmur of disapproval to Phil’s left, and he’s tuned in just enough to turn his head and catch the dirty look they’re both being shot by a woman shepherding her two small children away from them. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Phil says as he quickly looks away, feeling the burning heat come back to his cheeks in full force. The guy is much closer, crouched down in a squat right in front of Phil’s suitcase with a smirk that definitely shouldn’t be on his face. “I’m committing aeroplane crimes too, look at what you’ve done to me,” Phil whispers, his hands at his cheeks to cover most of his face. </p>
<p>Most, because—<em>well</em>—he can’t bear to limit his view right now. </p>
<p>“Airport crimes.” The guy’s lip twitches in amusement Phil doesn’t quite get. All he really gets is that it’s pretty, he’s pretty—and Phil can’t help but feel some of the tension in his chest melt. His hands drop with it. </p>
<p>“Huh?” </p>
<p>“We’re in the terminal now, not the plane. Big difference.” The guy’s eyes go big and wide, nodding his head as his lips press together. </p>
<p>Phil bites back a laugh. “Oh really?” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” he continues to nod, “less of an offense I think. Though I’m not too brushed up in- Where are we?” He looks up over his shoulder with a squint, a furrow in his brows.</p>
<p>Even with his glasses on, Phil can’t quite make out anything on the board he’s looking at. </p>
<p>If he’s being honest, he’s not really looking at the board at all. Such a nice side profile, such a pretty flush to his soft jaw, such a good nose… </p>
<p>“Iowa?” Phil guesses. Yeah, that sounds right. </p>
<p>“Atlanta- fuck, Iowa? Where did you get that from?” A smile still plays at the corner of his lips as he looks back to Phil, a dimple just barely caving into his cheek. He steadies his slightly wobbly squat with a hand at the edge of Phil’s suitcase and doesn’t wait for a response before getting right back to it. “I’m not too brushed up in Atlanta laws, you know? Saying dick in the airport might be celebrated here.”</p>
<p>Once again, so casual that laughter just bubbles right up out of Phil. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the delirium, the overall strange feeling he gets in airports inflated by the big smirk in front of him, but Phil feels a wicked grin pull across his face. </p>
<p>The guy susses him out immediately. “Oh you’ve got a look on your face I don’t like.” He’s smiling though, still smiling like Phil’s actually just looking in a mirror. </p>
<p>“What?” Phil asks, feigning innocence. </p>
<p>“Were you not just about to say dick as loud as you could bear?” </p>
<p>Phil scrunches his face up, jutting his chin out. “No.” He was. “I’m an adult! Thirty-three. Well past the penis game,” he says, unconvincingly. </p>
<p>“Oh really?” There’s a challenge in the smile he’s shot, in the eyes that refuse to let go of him. </p>
<p>“Yeah really.” Crossing his arms, Phil does his best pout. </p>
<p>It’s an unspoken thing. The two of them thrust into an impromptu staring contest. Eyes narrowing and twitching as the guy hovers closer and Phil’s eyes start to burn. He reckons the very worst pregaming for a staring contest would be crying, but he’s actually able to hold his ground for far longer than he’d expect. It’s probably only on account of someone so beautiful so close up, all that sun kissed skin—tiny dots of freckles on the delicate skin around his eyes—that keep his eyes wide open. </p>
<p>Phil thinks he could probably stare for hours and still want <em> more, </em>but his irritated eyes don’t allow for it, his left eye stinging as it twitches, the guy’s smirk permanently adhering to his face as Phil rocks back and blinks hard. </p>
<p>The guy’s laugh is loud, too loud for the situation, for all the angry people mulling about the terminal, but it’s infectious. It’s a ridiculous laugh for a ridiculous situation and Phil’s kind of starting to become obsessed with it, hissing giggles behind his hand as he blinks until moisture has returned to his eyes. </p>
<p>“Why’d you come over?” Phil asks, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands and pressing his palms to the floor. He shifts a little, feels his right thigh start to tingle up to his bum from sitting on the hard floor. “To apologize for the dick?” </p>
<p>He’s really got to stop saying that aloud like this, but he’s admittedly never been good at operating the brain to mouth filter. </p>
<p>“No,” the guy says, unfazed. “Well yes,” he huffs a laugh, “but no. I just couldn’t bear seeing all of that-” He scrunches his nose, then gestures towards Phil and his suitcase, looking up at him with a smile. “This is much better.” </p>
<p>“What is?” </p>
<p>“The laughing.” He’s apparently really keen on waving his hand about, doing a pointy thing in the general direction of Phil’s face. Phil tries to not think too hard about how big his hands are. “Smiling.”</p>
<p>“Well I’ve got to find some humor or else I’ll end up committing actual airport crimes.” He leaves out the part where it’s less about him finding it himself, more about the guy who decided to come over and put the smile back on his face. There’s something too… vulnerable about it. Like they’re more than just two strangers in an airport—which would be a ridiculous thought to humor. </p>
<p>“Got someone to get home to?” The guy asks, a slight frown settling on his lips. </p>
<p>“No- I mean, yeah, it’s not the most convenient to have a delay, but that meltdown you witnessed was more of an, <em> oh god I’m stranded in a foreign country for an indeterminate amount of time, my phone is dead, I left my charger in Florida, and I can’t even book a goddamn hotel room to cry into room service, so I’ll just have to cry into my pants here on the floor instead.” </em>Phil rushes it out all at once, his breathing picking up again as this whole fucked up situation settles heavy around him. </p>
<p>Warm brown eyes bore into his, a soft, sad sound leaving the guy’s throat. “Are they at least clean?” he asks. </p>
<p>Phil’s brows knit together. “Huh?” </p>
<p>“Your pants?” The corner of his lip twitches up, looking as if he’s biting back a smile as he lets go of Phil’s eyes to glance down at the open suitcase between them. </p>
<p>Phil’s eyes follow. “Oh,” he laughs. Flaming pink sits high on his cheeks as Phil leans forward, shoving all of his things back into his suitcase with fervor. He picks up the pair that’s hanging just on the edge and looks at them with a suspicious eye. “Yeah, I think so,” he hums, then balls them up to toss back into the case, quickly closing and zipping it shut. </p>
<p>“You <em> think </em>so?” The guy’s voice goes all high, disbelief. Phil looks back up to a similar expression on his face—he can’t believe how cute it is. </p>
<p>“Trying to kick a man while he’s down…” Phil holds on the n, lifts his brows expectantly as he bites his lip. </p>
<p>“Dan,” the guy supplies easily. A dimple pokes into his cheek again as he does. Also cute, if Phil’s keeping track of those sorts of things. </p>
<p>“Dan,” Phil repeats, looking him up and down—or well, the most he can with how he’s still crouching in front of him—before settling back on those big, brown eyes. Holding out a hand between them, he smiles and says, “Phil.” </p>
<p>Soft, warm—a few of his observational inferences hold true in the gentle grip at his hand. It doesn’t linger, they both let go after more of a single, quick squeeze than any sort of shake, but the feeling does. Like Dan’s left a ghosty bit of his soul right in the center of Phil’s palm. </p>
<p>Phil is quick to close his fist where his hand settles by his thigh, keeping it safe. </p>
<p>“Well Phil,” Dan says loudly, startling him back into reality. “Since I just shook the hand you may or may not have just picked up soiled pants with, I guess that means we’re practically mates now.” </p>
<p>“Soiled?! Really? <em> That’s </em> the word you’re going with?” Dan ignores him—well, mostly. He <em> does </em> do a little smirk, lifting a brow a few times, but he continues right on as if Phil never spoke. </p>
<p>“And it’s definitely weird to offer a stranger a bed in the last room available at the hotel down the street you just booked, but since we’re mates that changes everything.” </p>
<p>Phil’s eyes go squinty, his mouth pressing together as Dan’s words jumble around his head in a tangle. “I don’t think I’m following.” </p>
<p>Dan sighs, smiling softly. “We don’t know how long we’re stuck here for. I just pulled <em> so </em> many strings to snag a nice room at a hotel that definitely has room service you can season with your tears, and I’m trusting my judgement that a man crying on an airport floor couldn’t possibly be a serial killer—enough to ask if you’d like to share it with me.” </p>
<p>Oh. That- that he hears loud and clear. Sharing a hotel room with a stranger, a shouty stranger, whose name he only learned thirty seconds ago… He would be out of his mind, right? </p>
<p>But it’s that or, seemingly, the airport floor, and given the ache he’s already starting to feel from just sitting on it, the fit stranger seems like the better gamble. </p>
<p>“How do I know men who scream on the phone while boarding planes aren’t, like, cannibals?” Phil asks with a small twitch of a smile. </p>
<p>Dan chuckles. “<em>Well.” </em>He shrugs. “You never know, just have to trust me I guess.” </p>
<p>“What do you think the odds are?” </p>
<p>“Hm?” Dan’s brows tug together. </p>
<p>“That a cannibal and a serial killer would not only be in the same airport, but on the same flight, and now out of everyone have found themselves sat together in this busy terminal.” </p>
<p>“Probably much higher than both of us would like them to be.” </p>
<p>Phil snorts, shaking his head a little as he looks down at his lap. “That’s comforting,” he says with a smile. “Very optimistic of you.” </p>
<p>Dan lets out a sharp, “Hah!” bringing Phil’s—and the rest of the terminal’s—attention right back. “Yeah, that’s what they call me, Daniel <em> Optimist </em> Howell.” Dan rolls his eyes. “Hey maybe the storm will blow over and we’ll get back on the flight in an hour and my boy- <em> ex </em> boyfriend will get eaten by a shark that made its way into the pool.” </p>
<p>“Sharknados a part of your optimism?” </p>
<p>Dan sighs, the smile playing at his lips turning into a line as he presses his lips together. “If you couldn’t tell I really, really hate the guy right now.” </p>
<p>A smirk falls into a soft frown, Phil looking at the warm, inviting brown across from him. He’s right to think they both need this—whatever this is. Reaching out, being met the rest of the way. Simple kindness. </p>
<p>Despite the slight hesitation he feels—the hesitation he honestly should be feeling more of—Phil leans into it. </p>
<p>Phil drums his hands against the hard plastic of his suitcase before pushing himself up off the floor. “Come on,” he says, looking down at Dan as he extends a hand. </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“Come on,” Phil says with a little huff of a laugh. He wiggles his fingers between them, hoping he isn’t fully making an idiot of himself. </p>
<p>He isn’t for once, apparently. Dan huffs himself, then envelops Phil’s hand in his own. </p>
<p>“Where are we going?” Dan asks as he’s pulled up, Phil only dropping his hand to get his suitcase upright and grip around the handle. There’s absolutely no reason for him to want to keep holding on to a strangers hand, so he really must be losing his mind with the pull he’s feeling.</p>
<p>“We are going to make use of these,” Phil says, pulling the vouchers he was handed earlier from his hoodie pocket, “before we call a cab to your hotel room’s minibar.” He grins at Dan and gets something similar in return as Dan rights his carry-on sitting atop his black suitcase and clicks the handle up and down a few times. </p>
<p>“Fuck. I like you Phil.” Dan taps the toe of his shoe against the side of Phil’s. “Growing on me.” </p>
<p>“Oh?” Phil smiles, a delighted little chuckle leaving his throat as he starts to lead them out of their gate. “Didn’t realize I was in your soil,” he says as he definitely stumbles over his own foot. That’s definitely why his shoulder bumps into Dan’s. Not because he leans into him on his own accord. </p>
<p>There’s a huff of laughter beside him, and Dan shakes his head a little, steering Phil in the right direction as they leave the terminal in search of a bar. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“God,” Dan says with a huff as he plops down on a barstool.</p><p>He rolls his neck and shoulders the second his hand is off his suitcase, and does a little tap of his fingers against the bar top before looking over at Phil. </p><p>Phil, who has, seemingly, lost a little bit of brain function due to the expanse of the exposed skin of Dan’s neck stretching and relaxing. He swallows, hard, and blinks a few times, scrambling to pull his own suitcase up to the stool beside Dan and carefully sits down with probably the most thought he’s ever put into putting his ass on a surface. He’s not entirely convinced he won’t slide right off and onto the floor with how… distracting this guy is. </p><p>“The only thing I’ve eaten today were those plane snacks,” Dan continues, shifting around until his long—very long—legs are all tucked up under the bar with his feet resting on one of the metal bars on his stool. He fully makes himself at home, rests his elbow on the bar top and cups his chin in his hand to, somehow, look <em> up </em> at Phil. “Had a bit of a morning.” His face goes sour, that really good nose of his all scrunched up. <em> Cute.  </em></p><p>Phil’s heart skips a beat or two, or three. </p><p>“Tell me about it,” Phil’s voice comes out that kind of fake deep, like he’s trying too hard to make sure it doesn’t squeak up a few octaves with the dryness of his mouth. Which, like, that’s exactly what he’s doing so… he’s only got himself to blame. </p><p>Dan lifts a brow. Despite his smile already being loosely pulled up by his head in his hand, Phil catches it widen, twitching just at the corner. </p><p>“You too?” he asks. </p><p>“Well,” Phil feigns rolling his own shoulders, sitting up straighter to stretch out his back just so he has an excuse to look away from all of that… temptation, “we both had to endure Orlando International at hell in the morning. And now we’re both stuck here, aren’t we?” He looks back to Dan with one of those defeated little grin and bear it smiles.</p><p>“Fuck,” Dan groans under his breath. “Florida<em> fucking </em>sucks.” He spits the words out like they’re venom. “At least we’re not still there.” </p><p>Phil blows air out of his nose, shaking his head a little with an easy grin that doesn’t at all feel like a chore. “I’ll drink to that.” </p><p>With that, Phil catches the bartender’s attention and orders the first sweet sounding cocktail on the slightly sticky list in front of him, something obnoxious with a name just as fitting. Dan snorts beside him, muttering something under his breath, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth when Phil looks to the side with a raised brow. He likes being able to make Dan laugh, too, so he doesn’t even let himself feel that usual bit of shame, or whatever it is, as Dan orders a wine without as much of a glance at the drinks menu. </p><p>Neither of them say any more, just an easy shared smile before Dan twists around and starts to rifle through the duffle bag atop his suitcase. He pulls out a long charger cord, tugging as he goes to untangle it from whatever it’s all caught up in, and makes grabby hands for Phil’s dead phone. Phil slips it out of his hoodie pocket and hands it off with cautious eyes, unsure why he’s so easy to trust this stranger—it can’t just be because he’s pretty, right?—and Dan plugs it into the power bank that’s seemingly built into his suitcase. </p><p>“That’s quite swish,” Phil says as his phone lights up with signs of life. </p><p>“Comes in handy.” Dan shrugs, placing Phil’s phone on the bar top. He turns back to Phil, cheek in hand again. “I travel a lot.” </p><p>“Does it do anything else?” Phil asks, only flicking his eyes away from deep brown to eye the case suspiciously. “Your taxes? Cat facts like Alexa?” </p><p>Dan laughs, shaking his head. “No, my suitcase does not do my taxes. God, are you always like this?” </p><p>“Like what?” Phil looks back at Dan, his eyes a little wide, searching. Worrying, honestly. There’s always that turning point where people think he’s too goddamn weird for his own good. Sometimes it’s tiring always waiting for the other shoe to drop with new friendships—not that this is one of those, or anything—and Phil’s resigned to keeping his circle small because of it. </p><p>“Ad-” Dan starts, but stops, biting his lip and scrunching his eyebrows. Like he’s thinking of something better to say. “Never mind.” He waves him off with his free hand, then pushes up off the bar to pluck a menu from the holder to his side. Looking quite invested in the fading words and dimly lit pictures, Dan leaves Phil with a dry mouth and a view nicer than any of the Floridian sunsets he’s spent the past few weeks watching. </p><p>As if on cue, Phil’s stomach growls at the mere thought of food, shaking them both out of that bit of weirdness, that bit of something bubbling just under the surface, and he leans into Dan’s side to read over his shoulder. </p><p>If there’s another menu to Phil’s left, well, he simply doesn’t see it. </p><p>Dan sighs, deep, dramatic after a few quiet moments of just the two of them breathing softly and the clatter of ice against glass for Phil’s drink. He passes the menu over to Phil, who’s got a permanent look of confusion on his face, scrunching up his nose a bit more at the slight tackiness between his fingers when he takes it. </p><p>Dan shakes his head. “Nothing vegan,” he explains. </p><p>“Oh,” Phil hums, looking from Dan to the menu, his face softening. “We can find another place-” </p><p>“No, no,” Dan interjects, “we already ordered drinks, it’s fine. I just…” Phil looks up to see a tight frown on Dan’s lips, considering. “I need something greasy in me, stat,” he decides on with a short laugh. “A giant pile of chips will suffice.”</p><p>Phil huffs, chewing at his bottom lip as his eyes flick between Dan and the list that’s making the grumbling in his stomach louder and louder by the second. “Would you mind if I ordered a burger?” </p><p>Dan’s lips part, looking at Phil with a squint to his eye as he leans back the slightest bit. His lips do move, something inaudible, perhaps not anything at all, leaving them before he blinks and shakes his head. If Phil didn’t know any better he’d say the guy looked dumbstruck at the question. </p><p>“No, of course not,” Dan says after clearing his throat. “Uh, I mean, like, go for it. I don’t care.” </p><p>Phil makes a small noise of acknowledgement, plastering on a smile as drinks are set out in front of them. Despite not once looking his way, Phil can feel Dan’s lingering gaze like the afternoon sun burning high on his cheek as he orders. </p><p>He’s not quite sure what it’s all about, but there’s a distinct lack of discomfort crawling under his skin that feels so, so foreign to him. And he’d quite like to embrace it, if he’s allowed. </p><p>He’s had a bit of a day after all. Reckons he’s allowed to lean into it, instead of shying away or fighting it off like he’s used to doing. </p><p>Phil swirls his straw around a few times, manners not even passing through his mind as he sticks two fingers in to procure the cherry at the top of his drink. Popping it in his mouth, the tips of his fingers lingering against his lips until they’re no longer sticky, Phil glances to the side, to the eyes boring a hole in the side of his head. Artificial sweetness bursts on his tongue as he chews slowly, his cheeks as pink—perhaps pinker—as his drink with the way Dan’s dark eyes watch him, darker wine swishing against the sides of his glass. </p><p>He swallows, the saliva in his mouth from the sweetness disappearing in an instant, and picks up his glass as well, lifting it between the two of them. </p><p>“What do they say? It’s five somewhere.” Phil tilts his head with a cheeky grin, trying to stave off the floaty, dizzy feeling he’s getting before having even a sip of alcohol. </p><p>Dan smiles, meets him the rest of the way with the soft clink of their glasses—two drinks that couldn’t possibly be any more different sloshing against their edges. </p><p>“Back home, I think,” Dan says before lifting his glass to his lips. </p><p>“Huh,” Phil hums around a sip. His internal clock always goes funky on trips like this, regardless of how long he stays, but it feels right. Without a second thought, Phil leans into Dan’s space, reaching an arm across to tap at his phone screen, illuminating the time. “Think you’re right.” </p><p>It takes a hell of a lot for Phil to sit back in his own seat, but he does—because they’re strangers, and it would be weird if he didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>They’re about halfway through their drinks when their food comes out—nothing but soft surface level chatter and Phil’s increasing interest in Dan’s wine stained lips passing the time. He keeps licking them, pressing his glass against them, biting at them, and otherwise finding ways to make Phil’s brain spin into overdrive. Phil knows it isn’t intentional, knows he’s mostly just being a creep—a mildly horny creep, thanks to the vodka—and that Dan’s probably one of those people that always needs to be doing something with their mouth. But, <em> god, </em>it’s just so distracting, so hard to look away from. So Phil simply doesn’t. </p><p>It doesn’t even register to him that their food’s been set out in front of them until those lips are parting in a sigh, Dan shaking his head as he sets down his drink.  </p><p>Dan laughs, and it sounds as exasperated as Phil has felt most of the morning. Phil can’t help but laugh as well, far too loud for the situation, but once he’s realized what happened it’s like it’s the funniest goddamn thing he’s ever seen. Because they’re both probably a little delirious at this point, the stress of the day needing an outlet to escape somehow, the bar is absolutely filled to the brim with their laughter—until Dan is whacking at Phil’s arm, trying to shush him whilst trying to catch his breath himself. </p><p>“It’s not that funny,” Dan wheezes. </p><p>“It really isn’t,” Phil agrees, though the ache at his cheeks says otherwise. </p><p>Dan picks up one of the chips from his basket and looks at it with disdain, chips that he <em> definitely </em>ordered, definitely asked for, but aren’t exactly the potato product he had in mind. Neither of them seem to be able to catch a break today, it seems. </p><p>“You know what, I deserve that,” he says before popping it in his mouth. Once again, very hard to look away from, despite Phil knowing that it’s probably not good etiquette to be staring at someone chewing their food. </p><p>Phil doesn’t think he does—deserve that, that is, regardless of how funny the mix up is—and he’s quick to turn his plate around on the bar top, so his actual fries piled up beside his burger are in Dan’s reach. </p><p>“All yours.” Phil nudges it towards Dan just for good measure. </p><p>Dan smiles wide and snatches one up quickly, dipping it right into the little tin cup of, presumably, ketchup on Phil’s plate. “I’m going to become a potato, and at this point I’m embracing it. New year, new me,” he says before popping it in his mouth. </p><p>“It isn’t even the new year yet,” Phil laughs. </p><p>Dan shakes his head as he chews. “Let me have this. I need this, Phil.” </p><p>And oh boy… Phil thinks he’s a bit obsessed with this guy. With his big mouth and his big hands and the dimples that come and go as he chews. Someone simply saying his name shouldn’t send such a tingle down his spine, and Phil honestly doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. </p><p>“So you’re not gonna curse him out?” Phil asks, all cheek—because apparently that’s what this guy brings out in him. </p><p>“No, why would I-” Dan stops, his eyes squinting for a fraction of a second before realization washes over his face. He huffs softly as he pokes at his crisps, then looks back over at Phil with eyes so disarming Phil’s breath stutters. </p><p>“He,” Dan nods to the guy behind the bar, down at the other end, “didn’t drag me across the sea to Florida just to fuck the pool boy while he thought I was sleeping.” The casual tone of Dan’s voice doesn’t quite meet his glassy eyes, and he’s quick to look away from Phil, picking up his wine glass and downing the rest in one go. </p><p>It’s like a kick to the chest, really, Phil unsure what to say, do. He barely knows this guy and he already wants to be about ten times more shouty than Dan was on the plane to anyone who would dare to put that look on his face. </p><p>“Oh,” Phil gets out despite the winded feeling in his chest. “Ouch.” His fingers twitch, hand perhaps moving on its own accord to gently brush his thumb against the back of Dan’s hand, where it’s tightly gripping at the edge of the bar. There’s a soft sigh that follows, and it feels all too intimate for a random bar in some American airport in the middle of the afternoon. He plays it off as just a stop on the way to stealing one of Dan’s crisps and settles back into his own space with a crunch. </p><p>“Yeah,” Dan sighs, letting out a breath so deeply Phil almost feels the effects in his own chest. He keeps his eyes on the last dregs of his wine as he slowly tilts the glass around. “Whatever, it’s a long story.” </p><p>Ever the gossip he is, Phil tilts his head a little, looking at Dan with a sad smile and says, “I might have a bit of time.” </p><p>Dan looks to the side at that, tension in his brow as he regards Phil like there’s a long division problem on his forehead. Without breaking their gaze, he plucks a chip from Phil’s plate and chews it agonizingly slowly—there’s probably fractions involved, he doesn’t know what to do with the remainder. </p><p>Logistically speaking, someone shouldn’t be this hot while simply grinding up some fried potato between their teeth, but Phil’s enthralled. He could blame it on being overtired, on the exasperation he feels towards this whole day, making this little flickering light of good gleam until he has to squint back at Dan’s gaze. He could. It would make sense, make this all less embarrassing and pathetic—the desire simmering like desperation, but he doesn’t let any of that stake claim. He pulls it from the root and just allows himself to be tugged whichever way he likes without all that overthinking and guilt that makes the pulse of blood in his ears signal for him to bolt. </p><p>Dan sighs, Phil watching his expression shift with the soft release of breath. The corner of his lip twitches up, just the shadow of a dimple at his cheek for the briefest of moments. </p><p>“I think I need a few more drinks in me before I start telling strangers about my pathetic little life,” Dan says. There’s something in his eye, in the huffed laugh that follows that makes Phil snort. Misery loves company. Especially when it’s this pretty—it almost doesn’t feel like misery at all.</p><p>Dan smiles a bit wider around the rim of his wine glass, the rich red less dark as the last few drops slide down the tilt of his glass. Phil smiles, too. </p><p>“Aw, we’re not strangers are we?” Phil sways on his stool to nudge Dan’s shoulder. “Thought we were bros,” he says with a wide grin at Dan’s quirked brow. </p><p>“Bros?” A dimple caves in. </p><p>“Buds?” Phil suggests, expression teetering the line of shit-eating. </p><p>Dan’s brows lift higher, another dimple making an appearance as Phil watches him swallow. <em> “Mate.”  </em></p><p>Phil sees past the warning tone, sees that golden glint in deep brown. </p><p>“So we’re mates then?” Phil bounces in his seat a little as he goes for one of Dan’s crisps. “That works for me.” </p><p>“Oh my god.” Dan does quite a shit job at hiding his grin, shaking his head to himself as laughter escapes from his nose. “I think I hate you actually.” He bats away Phil’s hand going in for another steal, does something ridiculously cute and frustrating with his fingers against Phil’s that starts a small battle. </p><p>“Oh really?” Phil wiggles his fingers around while Dan wields his index like the world’s flimsiest pirate sword. Warm, also. A very warm pirate sword. “See, your first words to me were ‘fuck off’ so I couldn’t really tell,” Phil says, all cheek. </p><p>Dan pushes his finger against Phil’s palm, makes him twinge a little with the tickle of it, and then drops their little game to push his basket of chips the tiniest nudge towards Phil. Phil grabs one with a victorious smile, an over exaggerated crunch that makes both of those dimples appear again. </p><p>Dan clears his throat. “I am sorry for that though. Like I said, uh...” He makes a gesture in the air and shrugs, letting the thought dissipate. </p><p>“Yeah,” Phil nods before whatever between them has the chance to run stale like the malt in the air, “yeah. S’alright.” He nudges his shoulder against Dan’s again. “Eat your imposter chips and I’ll buy you another drink. Something that looks less…” Phil scrunches his nose at Dan’s wine glass, eliciting a wheezy laugh he wasn’t expecting. “<em>Boring</em>.” </p><p>“Now he’s insulting my drink preferences, way to kick a guy when he’s down,” Dan says—but he’s sitting up straighter, leaning closer to the bar as he catches the bartender’s eye with a nod. </p><p>He turns back to Phil with a grin that’s made its way all the way up to the corners of his eyes. </p><p>“For a guy who’s down you sure are smiling a lot,” Phil says. </p><p>“Yeah, well.” Dan picks up a few chips and unceremoniously dunks them all in the ketchup at once. </p><p>The swipe of his tongue at the red staining the corner of his lip has Phil wondering if condiments should be illegal—if they’re even deemed safe for work. </p><p>“Maybe I’ve lost the plot,” Dan finishes his thought with a shrug and a look Phil feels viscerally. </p><p>“I think I’ve found it,” Phil mutters under his breath while Dan’s attention is on the bartender swapping out their glasses for something less empty. </p><p>It’s not meant for Dan’s ears, just a slip in the often faulty filter between his brain and his tongue, so it’s good it doesn’t reach them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>come bug me on <a href="https://sierraadeux.tumblr.com/post/645302696309587968/bend-a-little-chapter-4-3212-words94k-m">tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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